


Éomer's Bride

by Quietbeansidhe



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-09-15 04:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16926300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbeansidhe/pseuds/Quietbeansidhe
Summary: Newly informed of her arranged marriage, Princess Lothiriel steals north to meet the man she must marry, King Éomer,  on her own terms. When she arrives, she finds the King taciturn and unhappy, and not at all what she was expecting. Will their marriage be nothing more than a political arrangement, or is there is a deeper desire that binds the two?





	1. Chapter 1

After the War of the Ring, peace prevailed in Middle-earth, mostly. The work of rebuilding cities and reorganizing territories took time, and in that time, bandits and thieves not inclined to take advantage of the opportunities to better themselves, instead took advantage of those who travelled the no-mans-lands between settlements from Gondor up to Rohan.

Lothiriel sighed. They had stolen her horse, her pack, her shoes and travel cloak, but they had left both the plain tunic and leggings she was wearing and her maidenhood intact, so in that respect she considered herself lucky. Had they realized her identity, they would have stolen her until a healthy ransom was paid by her father, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

In the years before the war, lone travelers were scarce, but these days, people moved both north and south in greater numbers to look for work and settle their families in reclaimed land that was fertile and under the control of the newly crowned King Elessar.

She frowned, by now her parents would have informed the King and Queen about her disappearance; her mother must be beside herself. Perhaps thinking she was dead or abducted. Given the events of the last hour, her mother was almost correct.

She had left The Harad Road behind her and now followed the Blackroot river to the base of the mountain pass that would, within a week, lead her past the Dunharrow and up to the great hall of Edoras.

The mountain passes between Gondor and Rohan were perilous. She had known the danger when she secretly headed out a month before, escaping both her father’s guards and, more impressively, her mother’s diligent and watchful eye.

She also knew her father’s best trackers would be following her, but there was nobody more skilled in the art of tracking than she herself, and it was easy for her to give her father’s men the slip and continue her northbound journey to Edoras alone.

Princess she may be, but she had no problem sleeping rough under the stars when the weather held or taking refuge in the many caves and abandoned settlements when Eru Lluvatar decided to cleanse the land with rain.

Her father had always insisted that his children learn how to both protect and fend for themselves, and given that she much preferred the open seas, high hilltops and thick green canopy of the forests of Belfalas, she was grateful.

The warm spring weather made it easy to forage for fresh edibles and hunt for hare and the occasional wild grouse or turkey along the way, so while she did have hungry days, for the most party, she was well-fed.

There had been talk of marriage. While she fully understood that her role as the only daughter of Dol Amroth likely meant a political marriage was in her future, she had hoped against hope to escape this fate.

But it was not to be. The week before she had run away, her parents had informed her that her future husband was to be none other than King Eomer of Rohan.

“Please, not a king,” she had pleaded. “Marry me to a country magistrate or a well-placed administrator, but do not send me to a new land to live in a high tower and spend my days organizing dinners and signing documents!”

Her father had looked sympathetic for he understood her need to be outside and revel in the freedom of nature, but her mother had shaken her head with impatience. “You will serve as you are bid, and you will be grateful for the opportunity to make such a good marriage,” she had said.

Lothiriel would indeed do as she was bid, she understood that this marriage was a symbol of the new King’s renewed Oath or Eorl, pledging friendship and support between all of Gondor and Rohan, but she would not marry before she met this young king on her own terms, and enjoyed this one last adventure. This was her own personal spy mission to see how newly-betrothed ran his kingdom.

And it had been going so well until a small bedraggled band of thieves robbed her, just beyond Dwimorberg, where the Paths of the Dead, once haunted and fearsome, were now, thanks to King Elessar releasing the shades of those lost men years ago, safe and well-travelled.  

The dark door had been replaced with a graceful stone archway that opened impressively into the Firienfeld where the old King Théoden had prepared for the Battle of the Hornbug.

Her only consolation was that even the thieves of Rohan loved their horses, and her own trusty mare would be well-treated.

 _Welcome to Rohan_ , she thought dryly, and began to walk. The rocky ground was sharp under her bare feet and she stepped carefully. To her left, she imagined sun was beginning to sink in the sky, but the cliffs on both side of this mountain gorge were so steep that the shadows were always long except with the sun was directly ahead. She shivered. Without her cloak to keep her warm, she would have to risk a campfire. Luckily the weather was dry and the grey clouds she had thought may move in over her had retreated to the south. Still it would be a long night.

As she walked, she picked up the scrub and pieces of wood she could until she had an armful and could barely see over the pile. Deep in this part of the mountains, the Blackroot river had dwindled to more of a stream, and she chose a pace not too far from the water’s edge with her back to a small stone indent that would keep the heat of the fire around her nicely.

Before too long, the fire was sparking happily, and she lowered herself onto the pebbly ground, holding her feet as close to the fire as she could without burning them. She let down her black braids and nibbled on rabbit meat she had cooked that morning, and soon her eyes felt heavy and she surrendered herself to the gentle call of sleep.

* * *

 

She awoke to the sound of a horses and jingling armor. The sky above her was pink with the new dawn, but the bottom of the valley was still steeped in shadow. The fire had burned down to a small pile of glowing coals that she quickly smoored, before hiding behind a nearby outcropping of rock.

She may be hard to see, but the scent of woodsmoke was hard to miss, so she held her breath nervously as the company came into view, following the same path she had journeyed, riding single file.

The light was still grey, but she could see the gleam of the horse’s chaffrons and ornate helmets of their riders. They appeared to be a small unit of twenty march wardens likely patrolling the pass.

 It was not that she was afraid of them, but she would prefer to enter Edoras quietly and on her own terms. Not as a special guest if she was recognized, and certainly not as a prisoner under suspicion.

Her breath hitched as the leading soldier turned his horse to left and quickly dismounted, motioning for the others to wait. He beelined to her barely-smoored fire and kicked the dirt with his boot, uncovering a still glowing coal. She bit her lip as he raised his head and looked around. The others quietly drew their blades, and a few knocked their bows.

“Show yourself,” he called out, and she inhaled sharply, keeping still, hoping he’d give up. He waited a few moments then repeated, “Show yourself willingly now, or we will uncover you forcefully.”

She closed her eyes. A female traveler was often safer alone than with a battalion of men. While she knew that the men of Rohan adhered to the same standards of honour as the soldiers of Gondor, she was wary.

The sheer wall of rock behind her offered no means of escape and the soldiers had now dismounted and were beginning to fan out. It was just a matter of time before she was discovered. She took a deep breath, smoothed her hair and stepped out from the behind the rock.

“Call your men back, I am right here.”

The leader stood still. “Are you alone?”

She paused, hating to increase her vulnerability, but nor could she hide it. She raised her chin. “I am.”

“I find it hard to believe a young woman would travel this pass alone. Your speech marks you as a southerner. Where are your companions?”

“I lost them a few days back, sir. I travelled with a party from Minas Tirith to Edoras to sell pelts, but we were set upon by thieves a week past and my companions were slain. I narrowly escaped.”

“Why not return to your home?”

“Edoras is closer and I had heard that the people of Rohan are kind to those in distress.”

The soldier removed his helmet and shook out long brown hair, then he stepped towards her. The light was continuing to brighten, and she could make out the elaborate swirls and patterns carved into his armor and stitched on the sleeves on his tunic. His brown eyes were steady, only leaving her face to sweep the area around her.

“You are correct, mistress. You may travel under our protection to Edoras where you can prepare for your journey home. I am Holdred.”

“Thank you, Sir Holdred. I am…Celeblas, and while your offer is kind, I prefer to travel alone.”

Holdred cocked his head and raised his brows.

“Without a horse or even shoes?”

She exhaled. “That was a more recent development.”

“Mistress, we travel now to meet our Eored, and you will travel as our guest at my pleasure until I can deliver to our King who will receive you - or otherwise - at his pleasure.”

He turned to a soldier who was now standing behind Lothiriel. “Wulf, she may travel with you. Loan her your cloak and something to protect her feet.”

Unlike his tall companion, Wulf was of stocky build and he wordlessly led her over to his horse where he rummaged through a pack and provided her with a light wool cloak she fastened over her shoulders and a pair of well-worn wool stockings to protect her feet from the course horsehair that she pulled on over her leggings.

Wulf’s mouth twitched as he looked at her for a moment, but his eyes were kind and once he swung himself onto his saddle, he offered her his arm and a lecherous brow wag. She rolled her eyes but allowed him to hoist her up and she settled in the circle of his thick arms with a resigned exhale. Wulf travelled third in the line and around them the rest of the solders returned to their horses and without further discussion.

The riders travelled quickly through the Firienfeld, through the Stair of the Hold, moving carefully until they entered the Snowbourn valley where they met with a larger contingent of a hundred riders and camped for the night.

Holdred provided her with her own tent, a blanket, food, water and a change of clothes, for which she was grateful and made a mental note to repay him his kindness one day.

As night fell, the company sat around campfires telling stories, sharing jokes and mead. Lothiriel sat between Holdred and Wulf and four of their companions in the centre of the Eored.

While the riders were reserved with her, they were not unkind and ensured she was both warm and well-fed, but rather than asking her about herself, they remained quiet, and she felt very much the outsider that she was.

She was afforded a guard to accompany her when she needed to make water, and it was made clear to her through their constant vigilance that she was not free to wander the camp.

So instead she sat in the circle of fire light and warmth, listening to the casual conversations around her studying the men around her. Their faces were more rugged than the faces of the men in Dol Amroth, but they were handsome in their own right.

They wore their hair long and their faces mostly clean shaven although some did wear beards. While the people of the south were mostly black haired and grey eyed (herself included), these men tended towards blond or red hair and had ruddier complexions.

There were some darker complexioned men amongst them that roused her curiosity, but to ask question would draw more attention to herself, so she remained silent.

“Celeblas, you are a better horsewoman than many foreigners who visit our lands. Do you keep horses yourself?” asked one of the younger soldiers sharing the fire.

She smiled. “there are many stables in Minis Tirith, but it’s true that not everyone rides. My father made a point of teaching me horsemanship when I was a girl.”

The men nodded approvingly, and she sipped from the  of waterskin of mead at her feet. “Where will I stay when we arrive in Edoras?”

Holdred shrugged. “It’ll be up to King Eomer, but sometimes foreigners are billeted by families in the village, others stay in the main house.”

“It would be lovely to see how the people of Rohan live,” she said.

Holdred nodded. “Don’t be expecting great riches and houses like you see in Minis Tirith. We are a simple people who prize our land and horses above gold and silver.”

Lothiriel looked around to the other tents, visible in the moonlight. “I have heard this before, and Rohan hospitality is legendary. Our King speaks very highly of our norther neighbours.”

Holdred looked at her carefully. “And when did you hear your King speak?”

She paused. “Well, not directly, of course, but his views on this are well-known as is the friendship between Gondor and Rohan.”

This satisfied Holdred, who turned away from her to speak quietly with Wulf for a few minutes. Lothiriel exhaled in relief and placed her mead aside, then made her way to her tent and the privacy it offered. Tomorrow they would ride into Rohan and she would have her first glimpse at the man who was destined to be her future.


	2. A new lamb

While most of the Eored made their way back down the hill to see their families, Holdred quickly appeared and led her back down the main stairs to and down again via a well-worn dirt path to a rather large farm house that had once been handsome, but now stood in a sorry state of disrepair in the shadow of the Meduseld.

Lothiriel suppressed the urge to wrinkle her nose as they stepped over piles of sheep excrement to reach the what one could only assume was the front door, hanging on its last hinge, and as they crossed the threshold, Lothriel stepped back to allow two pantless children to run past her from what appeared to be a sitting room into the kitchen.

She turned to the soldier with wide eyes, “is this where I’m to stay?”

But Holdred simply shrugged his shoulders and shouted out “Goldwyn!”

From out of nowhere appeared a boy of perhaps 14 years, wearing threadbare leggings and leather boots with holes. “She’s outside, mi’lord. One of the ewes is in labour.”

“Tell her I’ve got a girl to help for… well, a few days at least. In fact, Celeblas, go on out to the stables. The King will send for you when he’s ready, and until then, Goldwyn could use your help and will feed you for your efforts.”

Lothiriel stood speechless. It didn’t appear that the owner of the house had much to spare by way of food or riches.

But she allowed the young boy to grab her hand and pull her through the dirty kitchen, where yet another toddler sat in the corner banging a set of pots and pans, and out the back door to a small shed where Lothiriel found the woman of the house, elbow deep in blood and viscous.

The woman looked up. “It’s breech, help me grab the back legs, but don’t pull!”

Lothiriel frantically looked behind her where Holdred had all but disappeared. _Typical._  

“Like this?” She knelt beside the woman and took hold of one of the white furred legs protruding from the rear of a sheep who was laying on her side, bleating.

“Yes. Now hold it tight, but don’t pull till I tell you, I’ve got to get her up,” the woman said, and with a grunt, heaved the ewe onto her feet.

Lothiriel’s urge to protest vanished when she watched the woman insert her hands deep into the sheep’s nether regions to hold the calf’s head steady. “NOW!” the woman yelled and Lothiriel pulled.

With a gentle splash, the lamb fell neatly between Lothiriel’s arms and into the soft hay strewn on the floor. It opened its eyes and protested its state with a quiet ‘baaaa’.

The woman grinned at Lothiriel, who couldn’t help but grin back, and together they wiped the mucus and blood from their arms and stood back as the mother turned around to clean her baby.

“Well,” said Goldwyn, “That’s about all we can do, the rest is up to her,”

Lothiriel watched the lamb raise its little head to greet its mother. “Indeed, but he looks a strong fellow, I think he’ll do well.”

“Or her.”

Lothiriel smiled and pushed her hair out of her face, only belatedly realizing the state of her hands.

Goldwyn wiped her hands on her apron, already blood red, and straightened her back.  “I’m Goldwyn, and I thank you for your help. Whatever happened to that useless rider I spied for a moment behind you?”

Lothriel snorted. “I think the sight of blood frightened him away.”

“Most likely. What brings you here, then?”

“I’m Celeblas, and I think I’m maybe supposed to stay with you?”

By now the lamb had stood and was slowly making its way to its mother’s udder. Goldwyn pushed a lock of yellow blond hair out of her face and smiled. The woman was barely older than Lothiriel. “You’re a traveler then? Where’s the rest of your party?”

Lothiriel wiped her hands on some straw and quickly rose to follow Goldwyn out of the small barn and to the well that stood near the main house to wash.

“I am alone. I was beset by bandits and the rest of my party is…well… I am alone now.”

Goldywyn lifted a brow and paused, and Lothiriel was sure the woman was sizing her up, but whatever Goldwyn was thinking was quickly abandoned as she untied the apron and placed it over a fence post. “I have four children. Their father was killed in the war and I do what I can to keep them clothed and the house from falling in over our heads. You’re welcome to stay with me – no doubt that what’s Holdred intended – but I warn you, it won’t be an idle stay; you’ll earn your keep while you’re here.”

She eyed Wulf’s oversized tunic and socks with amusement. “You can sleep with the baby, and together we can find you some better clothes.”

A screech was heard from inside the house as one of the pantless children ran out the kitchen door and across the courtyard into the barn. Goldwyn sighed. “I swear he was wearing pants a few hours ago…”

Lothiriel couldn’t help but laugh. “Why don’t you fetch him, while I find the kettle and put on some tea?”

Goldwyn exhaled and nodded, and Lothriel turned towards the farmhouse with a smile. She had never seen a lamb born before, let alone birthed one. What her parents would say if they knew!

Her smile faded as she entered the dimly lit kitchen. While the home was not dirty per se, the mess of four children and a working single mother was evident. She filled the kettle from the kitchen pump and hung it over the fire. Atop the hearth sat two paintings. One of a woman who vaguely resembled Goldwyn – perhaps an ancestor?- and a young yellow-haired couple, the man and woman of the house, in happier times.

She noticed that the furniture, although worn and dented, had once been finely carved, and in the higher shelves she saw finely blown glass goblets in different colours. She sighed. So many had been killed during the war, and no amount of rebuilding could return what these families had lost; husbands, fathers, sons, lovers.

She wondered what Eomer was doing, if anything, to appease these families and made a mental note to ask.

She found three chipped but serviceable steins in a cupboard near the door and next to a pile of rosepetals, well hidden from little hands, and proceeded to make three cups of rose petal tea.

When Goldwyn entered a few minutes later, a toddler (now wearing pants) perched on her hip, she stopped, her mouth open. “You really made us tea?”

Lothiriel smiled. “Of course. You look like you could use one.”

“There are three cups.”

“I saw a young man earlier. I thought he might wish for one as well?”

Goldwyn stared at the cups as through she’d never seen tea before, then shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

“Yes, why not, I suppose. I only wish I had something stronger to mix in…”

Lothiriel smiled and together the two women sat at the table. Goldwyn perched on a stool that had once been a graceful chair but had lost its back supports, and Lothiriel on the only other servicable chair in the kitchen.

“This was once a lovely house,” she said, looking around at the graceful curves of the entrance ways and the gold-painted rafters above.

“We were once a prosperous family, but the war changed that. Since my husband’s death, I am able to feed the children with what I make from the livestock, but the house I simply cannot keep up with, even if I had the ability. That door for example? We are fortunate that we can trust our neighbours and that the warm weather is almost here.”

“Can the King not provide aid? I see all manner of construction happening around the Meduseld.”

Goldwyn sipped the tea and closed her eyes, savouring the taste, or perhaps simply exhaling.

“We have many in greater need than my family and I. The King’s attentions are needed elsewhere.”

She leaned forward and sat the toddler down on the wood floor, then stood and gathered up their mugs. “There is work to do. Please take a few minutes to wash, then gather the children, and I will begin our dinner preparations. First I will find you some clothes.”

Lothiriel touched her hair only to wrinkle her nose when she found it sticky with lamb’s… something. If only my parents could see me now indeed, she thought to herself with a roll of her eyes.

She made her way to the well in the courtyard and had just poured a pail of water over her head when a deep voice sounded.

“Girl! Where is your Mistress?”

She wrung the water from her hair and stood. “I am no girl. And my Mistress is inside. Who enquires?”

She looked up to find a broad-shouldered man standing in front of her. He wore a fine gold tunic and the long blond hair that hung around his shoulders shone in the bright sunlight. His eyes, currently fixed on her face, were golden-green and framed with heavy brows that lent an air of gravitas to his gaze, despite his obvious youth. A golden circlet around his head cause Lothiriel to close her eyes. Oh no, not now…

“You may tell her _her King_ awaits.”

She looked beyond him. He was alone, without aids or a guard. What kind of king wanders alone?

“King Eomer?” she asked weakly.

“Is there another?”

“No, Sire, my apologies, I will… errrr… fetch her for you, of course. Oh! May I offer you some refreshment? Some tea, perhaps?”

His brows raised. “Tea?”

“Yes, Rose. I just brewed it.  One moment please, your Grace.”

Lothiriel disappeared behind the kitchen door and covered her face in her hands. Of all the moments for her to meet her future husband!

“Celeblas, what is it?”

“The King!”

She raised a brow. “Yes?”

Lothiriel grabbed the extra tea. “He is here. He is _HERE_. The King!”

“And you left him outside?”

Lothriel inhaled. “Oh my…”

Goldwyn took the cup from Lothriel’s hands and smiled, then headed outside to talk to Eomer, while Lothiriel sank down into the stool and closed her eyes with a massive exhale. _One day he will know who I am, and he will never forget this._

“Your Grace, may I present my border, Celeblas, recently arrived from…”

Lothiriel rose and quickly turned around to face them, upsetting the stool, the falsest and most mortified of smiles plastered on her face.

“Forgive me,” she said, bending to right the stool.

“Allow me,” said Eomer, quickly reaching to right it, his arm colliding with Lothiriel’s.

She bit her cheek and willed herself to pull back, then to stand still and say nothing, as the King replaced the stool in its spot, then sat down to sip the tea that he, miraculously, still held in his other hand.

Lothiriel fell into a deep curtsy, then looked over at him to find those golden green eyes crinkled in a grin.

“Please, Mistress, I do not mean to upset you. Goldwyn,” his gaze returned to the tall woman of the house. “I was on my way to the stables and thought to stop by. Would you bring the children to the great hall tonight? The men have returned, and it will be a fine gathering.”

“And you came here on your own to ask?” interrupted Lothiriel, earning two harsh looks.

Eomer ignored her question. “You are most welcome, Goldwyn, as is your guest. But I trust you will find her more appropriate attire? I have never found Wulf’s socks to be overly appealing.”

Lothiriel gasped and it took everything in her to remain silent. Had she been in her father’s halls! Or even King Elessar’s! But she remained silent and merely glared.

Eomer grinned and Goldwyn suppressed a smile. “Of course, Your Grace. We will be there.”

The King downed his tea, now lukewarm, with a single swig, then rose to bid the women farewell, and when he was gone, Lothiriel closed her eyes tightly and cursed the foolish idea that had lead her here to this Godforsaken farmhouse, in this Godforsaken land, with its Godforsaken King, and most of all, these Godforsaken socks of Wulf!


	3. A Note From Dol Amroth

A feast in Meduseld was grander event than Lothiriel would have imagined, and the great hall was a flurry of activity and laughter as servants careened, trenchers of food in hand, around largely intoxicated riders catching up with the townsfolk after months away patrolling the marches.

Long rows of tables and candles lined the room and at the top, near the largest hearth she had ever seen, sat the head table where the King presided over the feast with his blonde hair pulled back, a heavy crown on his head and a thick sash of chocolate brown over one shoulder.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and bred for fighting, the man was rugged yet stately, and she avoided looking at him for fear of meeting his eye and recalling their humiliating meeting earlier that day.

She need not have worried, for Eomer’s focus was on the companions and aids who sat alongside him, and, after a few glasses of wine, she relaxed and appreciated having the freedom to study her surroundings.

The candlelight added an air of warmth and dignity to the large wooden hall and illuminated the great tapestries that hung on the walls and the gold painted knotwork intricately carved into the rafters above her. Not unlike those that hung in her father’s hall, each tapestry told a story of a great battle, well won, or an ancient King of noble deeds. But unlike her father’s hall, some of these tapestries also celebrated the great mearas whose stories – and lineage – were held sacred to the people of Rohan whose beloved war horses proudly still carried traces of mearas blood.

Lothiriel sat alongside Goldwyn and her children near the head table, close to the hearth, and was happily surprised when Wulf and a few of the other riders joined them after the dinner had been cleared away.

The 2-year-old girl currently sitting in Lothiriel’s lap traced chubby fingertips over the silver threaded pattern across the neckline of the blue gown Goldwyn had lent her.

The two women were of equal height and weight and the dress fit her well. Goldwyn had insisted that the princess wear her black hair in natural curls cascading down her back, in the fashion of the unmarried women of Rohan, and Lothiriel agreed; she was simply happy to be clean.

Beside her sat Goldwyn’s eldest, a tall thin boy of 15 named Hama, the one who had greeted her earlier, and who, unlike his fair-headed peers, sported a mane of thick black hair that reminded her of the young men of Dol Amroth.

Throughout the night, Hama had avoided making eye contact with her, yet somehow managed to sit beside her and rarely left her side. Lothiriel suspected a crush, and treated the boy gently, smiling when a young woman his own age approached him and invited him to join her table.

She found the people of Edoras open, friendly and, despite her foreign status, they treated her well and asked her many questions about Minas Tirith, King Elessar and Queen Arwen.

She worked hard to turn the focus of those conversations back on the townspeople, so that she may step out of the spotlight as much as possible yet learn more of their way of life.

She glanced up at the King, who had his goblet raised in greeting to a rider who had just entered the hall. One day this way of life would be her way of life, these people her people, whether she liked it or not.

She tightened her arm around little Gwen, who had balled her fist into Lothiriel’s hair and was beginning to pull. “That’s enough now, little one,” she gently admonished, adjusting the toddler with one hand while raising her glass to her lips with the other.

On the other side of the table, Wulf was conversing with Goldwyn, looking simultaneously awkward and charming, and the ever-patient Goldwyn refilled his wine glass.

The other two children were being passed around and fawned over by friends at neighbouring tables, and Goldwyn’s cheeks were flushed as she smiled up at the large soldier.

A light tap on her shoulder had her turn around to find a young serving girl who said, “The King wishes to speak with you, Mistress.”

Lothiriel’s heart jumped and she caught Goldwyn’s eye. The blond woman immediately rose and walked around the table to collect Gwen. Lothiriel resisted the urge to smooth her dress and adjust her hair, but she quickly bit her lips to redden them, and Goldwyn gave her a quick nod of approval.  

The serving girl led her to the newly vacant seat to the King’s right. Lothiriel paused for a moment, waiting for the King to rise in greeting.

Eomer blinked and raised his eyebrows at her, before she realized that, while a King might stand out of chivalry to greet a princess, he would not deign to do so for a lowly trader-refugee. Her cheeks flamed and she quickly sat down, murmuring, “Apologies, my Lord,” to which Eomer gave her a long look then snorted and took a swig of his mead.

“Girl, fill her glass!”

Within moments, Lothiriel had a large goblet of wine in front of her.

“Drink,” said Eomer. “There are few faux pas that enough wine cannot erase.”

“Forgive me, my Lord, I am not yet used to the ways of the Eorlingas.”

“We must strike you as having ill manners indeed, when a King would rise for a trader in Minas Tirith, but then I have heard that the King’s new wife has gentled his condition so perhaps things have changed.”

She smiled, embarrassed. “I did not mean to insinuate that you should rise for me, Sire, I merely paused to take in the sight of your impressive hall.”

Eomer accepted her explanation, although he studied her as though trying to puzzle her out.

He sat back into the large carved chair, never taking his eyes from her face. “You will be tired from your journey, although you look more settled than when I saw you this afternoon.”

“Yes, Goldwyn was kind enough to lend me a gown.”

She expected him to say something complimentary in response, perhaps comment on how the blue highlighted her grey eyes or how well her gown fit, but King Eomer clearly had no such designs. 

“Please do tell me exactly what you were doing in the mountain pass?”

She straightened her back and turned to him. So much for pleasantries; this was no idle conversation; he was clearly trying to determine her purpose for being here, and she took a deep breath before answering, attempting to clear her mind and regretting the amount of wine she’d drank.

“Did the King’s Riders not brief you, my Lord?”

She knew it was an impertinent question and a heavy eyebrow lifted in response. Eomer gave her a hard look. “I am not convinced you are who you say you are.”

She exhaled, then took a sip of wine. Her heart beat quickly, but she arranged her face in a relaxed smile.

“Then who would you have me be?”

He inhaled and, for a moment, averted his gaze to watch the people celebrating in front of him, before returning to her. She noticed the fine lines around his eyes and that the hair in his beard was altogether darker than that which framed his face.

“While we often receive fur traders from the north bringing thick winter pelts to sell, I don’t believe I have ever encountered a fur trader from the south. Now why would that be?”

She smiled nervously and took another sip of wine. Between the strong vintage and the King’s penetrating gaze, it was becoming harder to think.

“Well, we hunt animals more common to the south like mountain cats and rare species of deer, and we also trade with hunters from Harondor for striped horse pelts and the like. It is not for their warmth that these pelts are sought, rather their rarity. I have heard that the marshals of the Riddermark desire such exotic objects.”

King Eomer sat back on his heavy wooden chair and, starting at her, scratched his jaw. Then he shook his head with a chuckle and raised his eyes back to Lothiriel.

“Mistress Celeblas,” he said. “You were misinformed. The marshals of the Riddermark concern themselves with rebuilding our country and invest what small riches they have in horses rather than open displays of wealth. This is not Gondor; look around you and you will see the only palace in the country. There are no great houses to furnish.

“But your situation concerns me, to be attacked is no small matter. We have men scouting the very pass where you claim you were relieved of your possessions. I trust that, when these bandits are found – and they will be found – we can expect them to be adorned in, what was it you said? Oh yes, zebra and mountain lion furs. Is that correct?”

She swallowed and carefully studied the delicate carvings on the edges of her copper goblet. “Well, yes, Sire, I would expect so.”

Hazarding a glance up at him, she was surprised to see those golden-green eyes, normally hard, were laced in amusement.

He shook his head. “A fur trader from Minas Tirith... I will admit this: You have a familiar look about you. A distinctly southern look that I remember seeing in the faces of our allies at Pelennor. I find your manner odd, almost entitled, and I would give my right arm if you didn’t have a trace of elvish blood running through your veins. Is there anything, Mistress Celeblas, that you wish to tell me?”

For a moment she let her guard slip and looked up at him with wide eyes. Surely he couldn’t know who she was?

 “King Eomer, I find myself tired from the day’s events and seek the quiet of my room.”

He shrugged. “I can’t imagine that you will find much quiet at Goldwyn’s, but you are free to leave, for now.”

She rose and offered the King a quick curtsy, then turned on her heel and hurried out of the great hall  and into the cool night as quickly as decorum would allow.

* * *

 

 

While the warmth was a relief after the harsh of winter, there was such at thing as too warm. Eomer shifted away from the bright sunlight streaming through the large window as beads of sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck.

Morning briefings were always tedious. With a barely suppressed sigh, his attention returned to his main adviser, Leowine, who had delivered a report on political unrest in the Eastfold.

“First Sauron and now this,” said Eomer. “Are we never to be free of war in the Riddermark? After all we have been through, why would they wish to succeed?” His shook his head and locked eyes with Leo, who shrugged in response.

“The Lords of East Emnet seek to expand their power, your Grace.”

“Yes, but what could they stand to gain that they don’t already enjoy under the Mark’s rule? Surely, we are all Eorlingas, and succession brings vulnerability, but together we remain strong and share in the prosperity of peacetime. It is a foolish move.”

“Yes, your Grace, but that land is rich in resources and well-situated, and the Lords would rather that profits from the land, once it is developed, go into their pockets rather than the Mark’s. They suffered many losses during the war; and it is not greed that drives them, rather fear. What they lack, Sire, is trust.”

Eomer leaned back in his chair and took a large swig of his mead. “When I think of the sacrifices I made for that,” he pointed to the large throne at the top of the room, “only to now be met with distrust the moment that the kingdom becomes prosperous again. It defies explanation.”

Leo remained silent, and Eomer looked out the window towards fields of barley and hay just beginning to spout at the foot of the mountain. It had been a long meeting and he was anxious that it be over.

“Unless you feel that East Emnet is going to succeed before dinner, we can continue this part of the discussion later.”

Leowine inclined his head. “Of course, your Grace.”

 “By the way, I stopped by Goldwyn’s yesterday. The house is in a great state of disrepair; surely now that the riders have returned, we can spare a few to help her rebuild?”

Leo nodded. “Yes, Sire. But is it appropriate to visit the Lady without escort?”

Eomer’s eyes darkened and Leo hastened to add, “It could cause talk that you favour the Lady Goldwyn over others who have less.”

He scoffed. “Nonsense. She was the wife of the man who, had he survived the war, would have been my underking, and it pains me to see a woman of her ilk reduced to near-poverty, that is all.”

“As you say, Sire. I will send some of the junior riders to assist her with repairs.”

“But not too young; she must feel safe in her own home. I saw Wulf speaking with her last night, why not send him.”

Leo nodded and wrote a few notes in his handbook, then, placing a scroll on the table, said, “My Lord, there is one last thing to bring to your attention.”

Eomer inhaled deeply. It was nearly noon and he was anxious to spend some time in the stables.

“We received a missive from Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth,” Leo continued. “It is a quiet matter and the Prince asks for your discretion.”

The King sat up and focused his attention on Leowine.

“It seems that your betrothed has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“It would seem.”

“Is this not a matter of grave concern? She is my future queen!”

Leo pressed his lips together. “It would seem, Sire, that she rode north on one of the King’s horses without his knowledge, and a servant has since confessed that the princess was headed towards Rohan on a mission to…well…”  
  
Eomer leaned forward, his eyes fiercely imploring the man to speak.

Leo took a deep breath. “To spy, my Lord.”

“Spy?! On what?”

 “Her future husband, Sire,” the advisor said, visibly cringing, “to find out if he is to her…liking.”

The King was silent for one heartbeat, then two. He inhaled sharply. “The trader?”

Leo nodded. “The trader.”

At first, he said nothing, but then Eomer shook his head and began to chuckle. The chuckle grew into a laugh and the laugh into guffaws as he dissolved in helpless laugher at the thought of Imrahil’s genteel daughter, the future Queen of Rohan, wearing Rulf’s stockings and cleaning up after Goldwyn’s children.

“Great Béma,” he said once his laughter had quieted and the gravitas of the situation became obvious. “We will have to see her safe and write to her father.”

“I will have her moved into Meduseld immediately.”

Eomer lifted a finger in the air and Leo paused. “She is safe at Goldwyn’s. Nobody knows who she is, and it would bring shame on the girl to reveal her. Let her be for the time being, nobody is to know but us.”

Leo stared at his King, a small smile on his face. “As you wish, my Lord. I will send word to the south immediately.”

Eomer shook his head, his mouth twitching again. “I will write Imrahil myself.”  

“As you wish, my Lord.”

* * *

 

An hour later, the King stood in his private stable, grooming his favourite horse, a roan gelding named Arod, son of his beloved Firefoot who had died the year before.

Five years in, and the mantle of kingship weighed heavily on the former rider.

What he would give to take to the plains as he once did and sleep under the stars. But now he had responsibilities to tend to, and when he considered the political landmines he navigated on a daily basis, he dearly missed the counsel of the late King, his Uncle Théoden.

As he ran the brush over Arod’s haunches, his mind wandered to the black-haired princess. To have traveled all this way alone… It was but five years ago when that mountain pass was feared by the strongest of warriors.

He grinned. She was brash and foolish, but he admired her courage.

At first glance, watching her wash at the well, he had thought she was an elf, so slender and regal was her bearing. So unlike the women of the Mark, though he thought they to be the most beautiful of women in Middle-earth.

Yet for all her beauty, she was young, not yet 19, and he was not yet ready to marry. The very idea of marriage was yet another weight to curtail his freedom, another person to require his attention, another mouth to feed.

The years of conflict leading up to the War of the Ring were still a part of him, and he saw the face of every Easterling he killed the moment he closed his eyes at the end of each day. Every rainfall brought him back to Helmsdeep, the sound of colliding swords during practice transported him to Pelennor Fields. Sometimes the memories unnerved him so much he had to retreat from the public eye for a few hours until his mind felt stable and his shaking subsided.

‘Soldier’s Heart’ they called it, and it was common amongst many of his people, but he tried hard as their leader not to show this weakness.

Still, the only time he felt peace was when he retreated to the quiet of the royal stable to spend time with Arod and the other horses in his private herd.

He kept one horse for each member of his household. A tall white mare for his sister, Eowyn, and a grey gelding for his brother in law and friend, Faramir. And next to them, a newly acquired jet black yearling named Uron with grey eyes that had yet to be broken in. He was a magnificent creature that had been gifted to him by the Prince of Dol Amroth six months back to celebrate the eventual union of their families.

Eomer exhaled. If only he could keep the horse the return the girl. At least for a few more years.

It was clear that the horse had no desire to reside in the comfort of the royal stable. Uron spent his days kicking and biting anyone who tried to approach him, and Eomer recognized the longing he saw in the horse’s large eyes to be outside running through the fields of the Riddemark.

The horse would have to be tamed eventually, and it was almost a pity to break its spirit, but even horses must do their duty.

He stared thoughtfully at Arod. The girl could not be opposed to the union. If that were the case, she could have stolen away to the south as easily as she did the north, but he wondered what her plan was if she did not find him to her liking. Perhaps she planned to continue north and live secretly in the western settlements near Mirkwood.

Truth be told, it was not a bad idea, and if those quarrelsome lords of the east insisted on defying him, he might be tempted to follow her up country.

But in the meantime, two could play at her game. While she was assessing him, he would assess her, and like his years living rough in exile, she could live as a commoner until he was convinced she respected the people she would one day rule. He could thing of no better training for a queen of his country.

He slipped the horse an apple from last autumn’s store and patted its nose. “My people don’t trust me,” he said to it, smiling as the horse’s ears flicked towards Eomer. “Let’s not tell them I also steal apples on your behalf. Then I’d be finished.”

He found himself chuckling once again at the princess’ sheer audacity. While he had her under his protection, he would ensure her safety and keep close tabs on her health, but he was not about it make it easy.


	4. Official

“Something is afoot.”

Lothiriel was holding the new lamb while Goldwyn inspected the animal’s mouth. “Why?”

“Hold her steady, Celeblas. See that? Her mouth is wet, that means infection, and her belly is swollen. We must separate her and her mother from the other sheep until it clears.”

Lothiriel looked carefully. She could not tell that the animal’s mouth was any wetter or dryer than it should be, but she did understand that a sick lamb was a serious matter and Goldwyn was in no position to lose any of her flock.

“Will she recover?” asked Lothiriel, as she helped Goldwyn lead the mother and lamb into a separate stall in the barn.  

“We caught it quickly; she should be fine, as long as Hama keeps the stall nice and clean and we can get some medicine in her. Meanwhile, we’ve got to move these pregnant ewes to another area,” said Goldwyn as she secured the gate to the stall. She pushed some hair that had escaped her head scarf out of her eyes turned to face Lothiriel. “She should be suckling again in no time, poor thing, but that’s not what I was talking about. Something is _afoot_.”

The two women stepped out of the barn and into the bright sunshine of Rohan. The sky was a cloudless blue and around them the farmer’s fields were blanketed in soft green as the crops began to sprout. Bright green shoots that would soon turn to sturdy stocks of corn and rich emerald soy with velvety leaves obscuring the dark earth beneath. 

Further away she could see the great western mountains rising in jagged mounds at the edge of the grassy plains. She had never been beyond those mountains, although she had heard stories of the elves who once dwelled there; Queen Arwen’s people, whose blood ran in her own veins.

“The King has invited us to dine with him again, and then tomorrow we’ve been asked to ride out with his party. King Eomer has always made sure we are fed, but I am not sure what to make of all these sudden invitations. I have dined more with the King in the month since you arrived than I did in all the time since the war. I’m not complaining, but it is odd. I thought it might be that the King wishes to see Wulf and I marry.” Her cheeks flushed prettily, and she turned her face away with a small smile.

Lothiriel frowned. Something was afoot alright, but not what Goldywn was thinking. Guests and traders were a common thing in Dol Amroth, just as she was sure they were common enough here, and even in her kingdom, commoners who were billeted out to other commoners were expected to contribute, but still, she could not make sense of the King’s attitude towards her. On one hand he seemed determined to work her to death, and that was just it: Why would a King take any interest in the manual labour of a low-born visitor?

As the two women walked back to the house, Lothiriel pondered it. By now, it was totally possible her father had sent a missive north to alert Rohan of her disappearance, and she felt a pang of guilt in her stomach, she knew it was cruel to put her family through this, but was it not as cruel for her family to expect her to marry a stranger?

No, it was not cruel, it was duty, and she knew she was wrong to run away.

As the women passed the front of the house, they were met by a tall black-haired stranger leaning against a fence post, watching them intently. His faced was tanned by his travels, and his piercing grey eyes were focused steadily on her face. He was young man around her age, tall and well built; and under most circumstances, one could describe him as handsome.

Lothriel stared. She knew this man, but not from Rohan. In fact, she could not place him in her memory, but she knew she had seen him before. Was he one of her father’s guard?

“May I help you, sir?” asked Goldwyn, her voice sharp.

As Lorthiriel approached, he dropped to his knee, and when he looked up she saw relief in his eyes.

“Your royal highness, it does me great relief to have found you.”

She glanced at Goldwyn who stood staring, her mouth open. Lothiriel closed her eyes, wishing herself anywhere but there, and when she opened them, she bid the man rise.  

“Royal…highness?” questioned Goldwyn.

The princess sighed and offered her an apologetic look. “I’m afraid so.”

Goldwyn’s eyes darted from Lothiriel to the black-haired man, but she said nothing, and Lothiriel did not miss the bewildered look in her friend’s eyes.

“Tell me your business here,” she said, as if she didn’t already know.

The man smiled amiably, and lothriel realized he was quite handsome indeed. “I’ve come to escort you home. I was on my way to Rohan’s Hall, when I spotted you. Hiding in plain sight.”

Lothiriel raised her chin, “I am not _hiding_ , sir. I am merely… helping a friend. I do not know your face and why would my father send a stranger to fetch me?”

“I am Artin of House Jassin, and the last time you saw me, we were but children playing in your mother’s garden. Your father, the Prince, sent my father, Sir Gellian Jassin, who is camped an hour’s ride behind me with a host of 50 men. I was sent to make arrangements for his arrival once the King is ready to receive him. He will be overjoyed that we have found you so quickly.”

Ah, no wonder he was so familiar. She knew Gellian’s son had been sent away to study, and it had likely been more than a decade since she’d last seen him.

Her attention returned to Goldwyn, who straightened her back and stared at Lothiriel in a combination of astonishment and hurt. Lothiriel reached for her arm but Goldwyn flinched, and drew back.

“I am sorry, Goldie, please understand, I was doing it for…” her voice faltered.

Goldwyn raised her chin. “Her royal highness must ride out to meet her host,” she said, a distinct chill in her voice. “Please do not let me keep you.”

“Please understand—"

Goldwyn stepped back in answer and stared steadily at the ground in front of her.

Lothiriel exhaled through her nose and glanced at Artin. She wanted to reassure Goldwyn and to thank her for all the woman had done for her, but Goldwyn was right, she had best ride out to meet her father’s riders so that she may be presented to the King properly and perhaps salvage a semblance of her honour and reputation. She straightened her shoulders.

“I cannot present myself to the King like this,” she said thoughtlessly, then immediately regretted the insult to Goldwyn’s clothes and to the woman’s generosity.  Truly she would have to do better when she next saw her. But until then, her father’s men awaited.

“Sir Artin, please take me to where your father camps, that I may be presented properly.”

Artin bowed. “Your Royal Highness, Princess Lothiriel.”

Lorithiel turned to face Goldwyn, to try again, but the golden hair woman would not make eye contact and the princess blinked away tears of shame. “I’m sorry, Goldwyn, I did not mean… I am so grateful—”

Goldwyn nodded briskly and turned on her heel without so much as a curtsey, then disappeared into the house. Lorthiriel bit her lip, feeling every ounce of the insult, and her heart sank. She felt weary.

Looking up into Artin’s respectful but questioning eyes, she said, “Let us go, Sir Artin. The King will already know of your arrival and we should not keep him waiting longer than is necessary.”

As she allowed Artin to lead her through the gate and down the way where his horse was tied, she glanced back once and spotted Hamas watching her leave. Her heat sank with regret at her lies, she hadn’t meant it to go so far, she had never expected to be taken in as family, and she knew that when she saw Goldwyn and the children that evening, she would have some heavy explaining to do. Not to mention King Eomer.

* * *

When they reached the riders of Dol Armoth, the hosts had already been joined by a contingent of 25 riders of the King. Many of the men had fought together in the war and sat happily catching up and sharing stories.

Artin gently hoisted her off the mount, their arrival earning the attention of a few of the men who rose to greet them, then stood back with astonishment when they saw who the bedraggled peasant riding in with Artin really was.

By the time Artin said “Fetch my father,” the older man was already walking towards them.

Lothiriel was determined to stay stoic, but when she saw Gellian’s kind smile, stamped with relief, she couldn’t held but smile back at her father’s most trusted guard, a man she had known all her life.

“Forgive me, father, I did not have a chance to officially give message to the King of our arrival,” said Artin, standing straight to greet his father.

The older man bowed at Lothriel. “No son, but you have returned to us the treasure we sought. Princess Lothiriel, you look healthy; have you been ill treated at all?”

“No, Sir Gellian. The Rohirim have been nothing but kind to me, except the King who…well, I mean, he’s not been cruel,”

Gellian’s face darkened. “The King mistreated you?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that. Forgive me, sir, I am tired, and out of sorts. It is a great shock to see you here.”

Gellian stared at her for a few moments then offered his arm. “Let us retreat to my tent, Princess, for some refreshment.”

She accepted gratefully and with a last smile of thanks to Artin, allowed her father’s most trusted man to lead her to his tent.

Once inside she took a seat at the wooden table where a servant had previously set some wine and dried meats. Artin poured the wine into two pewter goblets and handed her one, then sat down across from her, his strong face pinched with concern.

He looks very much like his son, thought Lorithiel. Tall with broad shoulders, although he wore his hair longer than did his son. Streaks of grey formed at his temples and were tied at the back of his head, much in the elven style. The rest of his hair was still black and his intelligent eyes as grey as those two streaks of hair. He was an intimidating man, and she was grateful to retreat into his protection even for a few hours.

“We were discussing mistreatment,” he said.

She took a sip of her wine. “He didn’t mistreat me, Sir Gellian, only he made me work very hard. He had me clean the royal stables for hours, and placed me with a family to be their servant, of course they are lovely and treat me like family, but I had no idea that children, goats and sheep were so much work. I have not had a moment to think since I arrived. Of course, he can’t be blamed for this as he has no idea of my identity, Sir.”

Gellian’s face transformed from concern to amusement, and he quickly raised his goblet to his lips to hide a smile.

“Princess, your father received a letter weeks ago from King Eomer, assuring him that you were safe in his keeping.”

“He wrote a letter saying I was here?”

“Yes.”

“So he knows my identity?”

“Yes.”

“Has he always known?”

Gellian leaned forward, but Lothiriel raised a hand. “No, please don’t say anything, I think I understand.”

He sat back with small chuckle. “Your father wanted to teach you a lesson.”

She raised her brows and took a healthy swig of the wine, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, completely missing Gellian’s own brows raised in surprise.

“Well, he certainly accomplished that. And now that you are here, Sir Gellian, of course I will have to be formally presented to Eomer. In this.” She looked down at her blue homespun skirt.

Gellian smiled again. “Your father arranged for some gowns to be delivered. You may have use of this tent. I am afraid there is no woman to help you dress, but I trust you will manage on your own. The men are already heating water for you to wash. A quick meal and we will depart for Meduseld. I suspect the King will have his house preparing a feast for your… official… arrival.”

She looked up from her wine glass. “It is humiliating, Sir Gellian. The Eorlingas already know me as Mistress Celeblas. What will they say?”

Gellian sat forward and regarded her sternly. “What does it matter?  You are a Princess of the blood, the only daughter of the good Prince. The blood of the high elves flows through your veins, and you are to be their queen. These people already know you, which in my estimation likely means that they have taken you to heart. You will walk into that hall this evening with your head held high, every inch the monarch you are meant to be. All you need do is believe it, and everyone else will too.”

She pressed her lips together then offered the older soldier a small smile of gratitude. “I can see why my father relies on you, Sir. Thank you.”

Gellian stood and bowed. Then with a warm smile, left Lothiriel to prepare herself. 


End file.
